“This isn’t Hollywood. Stop trying to save the girl!”
You only caught a glimpse of the girl as she walked down the corridor. She had short hair. You reverted the news back to your friends.
“A girl has moved into the room next door.”
You live in a shared apartment.
Everyone was excited. Your friends had called to congratulate you.
“What does she look like?”
“She has short hair.”
“That’s a good start.”
You heard the sounds of cardboard boxes being dragged down the corridor, and you realised that this is the most opportune time to clear your room off the dishes that had been piling up in one corner. You take your glasses off, pick up the dishes and put your glasses back on. You exit the room and catch sight of a man as he enters the room next door, carrying one cardboard box and pushing another with his foot. His aura suggests athleticism and a lack of patience you should keep a distance from.
You inform your friends of the disappointing turn of events, and they offer their commiserations. You forget about the girl and try to move on.
Today is the first time you hear the girl’s voice, loud enough for the deliveryman to look up as he counts the money you just handed him. This apartment is large but the building is old, and the walls are paper-thin, something you’ve only just realised. The previous tenants in the room next to yours were an old American couple that decided to try their luck in Egypt. Dubai had not been kind to them.
Loud voices don’t usually bother you. But after a while, the loud voices escalate and they begin to bother you. If the girl had been excited about something, the exclamations would have dissipated. The sound one makes when they are in pain tends to linger.
You go outside to investigate and stand next to their closed door. You can hear her crying, violently. She is screaming something in Arabic. Her language is as much of a barrier as the paper-thin walls you can’t see through. The man is saying something as well. Their tones are polar opposites. The girl is delirious and rambling, while the man is calm and controlled. His cadence suggests experience in these matters.
You start imagining the possibilities where the girl is not being hurt. Maybe this is some far-out role playing stuff that you are unaware of. Maybe they are having a better time than you think.
You keep standing in the corridor, straining to catch a chance of a single word in a language you understand. The man’s fist makes a sickening sound against the girl’s stomach. The unmistakable thud and her groan reach you in a harmony that does not need to be translated. There are other people in this apartment besides you three. Why is no one else standing out here in the corridor with you?
You can hear her being strangled, just the sound of her voice barely escaping her body in illegible slews of Arabic.
Some people could be into that as well, but now you aren’t so sure. You panic.
You are no hero.
You go back to your room to decide the best course of action. You decide to call someone. Someone will know what the best course of action is.
“The girl with the short hair, her boyfriend’s beating her up.”
“He’s strangling her too.”
“I know. Someone should call the police.”
“Even if the police see a couple having a physical dispute they can’t intervene unless the woman asks them to.”
“He’s strangling her. Maybe someone should knock on the door.”
“What if you knock on the door and the guy punches you in the face?”
“Well, then the police…”
“And then when the police come and ask what happened, what if the girl is beaten up and she says you did it?”
“The girl says you were trying to rape her. And the boyfriend came just in time to punch your stupid face.”
“I’ll tell them…”
“They’ll believe the girl. The girl will protect her boyfriend.”
Self-preservation kicks in.
“This isn’t Hollywood.”
The path of least resistance.
“Stop trying to be a hero.”
You are no hero.
You hang up. You remember watching an episode of CSI where a police officer had alluded to some law where if a person does not report a crime, they too would be prosecuted. Is this a crime? You feel like you should research. There is a loud crash that permeates your thoughts of whether it was an episode of CSI New York or CSI Miami. You can’t find out because the WiFi has stopped working. The router is in their room. There is no WiFi.
This is getting serious.
While calling your landlord, you imagine him kicking down the door, making whatever is going on in that room stop immediately. You will then scuttle towards the corner of the room to make sure the WiFi router is okay. You will then give the girl a soul-searching gaze with the router still cradled in your arms that will simultaneously imply you are the one who called the person who broke the door down. The girl will be beautiful.
You are her hero.
Everyone watches CSI together.
“Hello? Yes, you know the people next door? Well, they’ve been fighting for a really long time.”
“They’re screaming pretty loud. I think he’s strangling her. And they’ve broken the router.”
“Tomorrow I will move the router in your room.”
“Ah. Excellent. And the guy beating his girlfriend?”
“She is his wife.”
The landlord’s last sentence was said in a tone that cements the end of the conversation. She is his wife. Your arguments are invalid.
The noises eventually stop. The lack of WiFi allows you to self-reflect. You have had conversations related to violence against women before. You had always maintained that you would definitely do something if it ever were to happen in your proximity. Your nobility now seems convenient when it was not stark against a backdrop of consequences. You had reverted this incident to other people. Everyone was unsure of what they would do, if they would do anything at all.
When does a private matter become a public concern? Is chivalry really the most delicate form of contempt?
Should someone have done something?
Realistically speaking, would she even want you to?
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